"Is that so?"
Falcone didn't look up as he spoke, his gaze still fixed on Jonathan's report.
"Mr. Ray, as always, seems to know everything happening in the world—even while seated comfortably within the Alliance. The Wraith's only been active for a day, and already he's caught Ray's attention. Truly impressive."
Falcone folded the document—detailed cargo manifests now neatly hidden beneath his ashtray—and reached for the second file. Inside were grainy surveillance photos of a man named Downton, taken in the Downton district. He studied them carefully before continuing.
"You know… you actually encountered the Wraith before I did."
A pause. Then, coolly:
"When the Wraith returned to the battlefield near the bus terminal for the third time yesterday—wasn't it your car that gave him a ride?"
Falcone leaned back, fingers steepled.
"At first, I assumed he was Ray's secret weapon—maybe even a prized protégé. But it seems the Wraith has no ties to the Alliance at all. That's… surprising. Especially given how closely his methods echo the legends of the Assassin's Guild."
He set the file down and turned his head just enough to catch Jonathan's eyes.
Jonathan adjusted his glasses, offering a faint, practiced smile. "It seems, Mr. Falcone, that you're quite curious about the Undead."
"No," Falcone cut in sharply. "Not the Undead. Mr. Reshoe."
His voice lowered, edged with something between warning and anticipation.
"Tell Mr. Reshoe I look forward to meeting him. I'm very curious to see how he plans to 'tame' a creature as volatile as the Undead. You're a doctor at Arkham Asylum and a professor of psychology at Gotham University—you've seen him up close. You know how dangerous he is."
Jonathan gave a slow nod. "Indeed. When I first met him, I thought he was just another of Gotham's endless parade of madmen. Every night, men like Downton—men who treat life and death like playthings—linger in shadows, drowning in vice, leaving chaos in their wake."
He paused, eyes distant.
"But this one… exceeded my expectations. I might even say he's exceeded Mr. Ressougu's."
Falcone's brow lifted slightly at the name.
"The moment Ressougu received confirmation from the dead," Jonathan continued, "he made the decision to come to Gotham himself."
He snapped his briefcase shut and rose from the sofa.
"So, Falcone—be ready. Ressougu could arrive at any moment."
With a final, courteous nod, Jonathan turned and walked out through the garden gate. Once he was gone, Falcone exhaled—a long, weary sigh.
Once an ability like Downton's is revealed to the world, the world reacts with terrifying speed.
Right now, it was just Ressougu and the League of Assassins.
But what came next…
Falcone shook his head. Did he even stand a chance of claiming a piece of this pie?
Just then, a woman emerged from the corridor connecting the mansion to the garden—graceful, poised, and unmistakably Falcone's daughter.
She ignored his faintly reproachful look and moved behind him, her hands settling gently on his shoulders.
Falcone frowned. "I told you to wait in the study, Sophia."
"But Father," she pleaded, leaning down to press her cheek against his, "we haven't seen each other in three years. Do you have any idea how much I've missed you?"
He remained unmoved. "Missing me? That's an excuse, not a reason. Sofia—do I need to wonder whether you've been eavesdropping on my conversations with guests?"
"Of course not, Dad!" She laughed, light and airy. "I'm not interested in the family business. You know my fashion line is booming! Especially this jumpsuit—I designed it myself." She gestured to her outfit with theatrical pride. "It's flying off the shelves!"
Still massaging his temples, she let her eyes drift to the open file on the table—specifically, to Downton's photograph.
"Besides," she added, voice softening into something coaxing, "you promised. If I made my brand successful, you'd invest two hundred million into my fashion film."
Falcone finally opened his eyes and turned to look at her.
Sofia stuck out her tongue and grinned—the same mischievous smile she'd worn at twelve.
He sighed again, this time with reluctant fondness. "The money will be in your account next week."
Then, more seriously: "But before that—how old are you this year?"
"Twenty-seven, Dad! You can't even remember my birthday?" She rolled her eyes, feigning offense.
"I remember," he said firmly. "But I hope you haven't forgotten. Twenty-seven isn't old, even in those glittering socialite circles you run in. But you're not just a socialite, Sofia. Don't mistake their glamour for worth. You're better than that. Don't pretend to be less than you are."
"So, Dad," Sophia said, leaning against the marble balustrade of the garden terrace, "are you finally going to introduce me to a man?"
She reached past him without asking and plucked the file from his hand—Downton's file. Her finger tapped the grainy surveillance photo.
"Him? The Asian guy?" She arched a brow. "Handsome, sure. But those suits—ripped at the elbows, stained at the collar. Does he think he's auditioning for a punk opera?"
Falcone didn't reprimand her for the intrusion. In fact, the faintest ghost of approval flickered in his eyes before he gave a slow, deliberate nod.
"Take his file. Find a way to meet him. I won't force my daughter to make sacrifices for this family—not like the old days. But… I'd like to see sparks."
Sophia studied him. Then nodded back, quicker this time.
"Sparks?" She smirked. "I'm hardly the romantic type. But… if you say he's the best match for me, I'll play along. You've never steered me wrong."
She paused, mischief dancing in her voice. "Though, honestly—why not Selena? If she's not busy chasing heiresses, she'd have him wrapped around her finger in an hour. She's got that real Falcone charm—the kind that makes men forget their own names."
Falcone's expression hardened.
"Enough." His voice was low, final. "Get out."
He gestured toward the garden gate. No room for argument.
Sophia shrugged, tucked the file under her arm, and walked off without another word.
Falcone watched her go, exhaustion etching lines around his eyes. Even among all his children—legitimate and otherwise—so few had ever earned his respect.
Still… Sophia was sharp. Reckless, yes, but not foolish.
At least she wasn't Lawrence's daughter.
He grimaced, recalling last night's headlines. The whole city was laughing at Congressman Lawrence now. His daughter—caught on camera, drunk and screaming obscenities outside a charity gala—had single-handedly dragged the family name through Gotham's gutter.
Falcone exhaled through his nose and unfolded the Gotham Gazette, letting the morning sun bleach the ink into something cleaner than the truth.
Meanwhile, at the Lawrence estate…
Haino Lawrence paced the length of the living room like a caged animal, phone clutched in her white-knuckled grip.
"Haino," her father groaned from the armchair, tossing aside his newspaper. "If you're going to march like that, go use the treadmill. You're making me seasick."
"Ugh, Dad," she snapped, not even looking at him. "You're worse than the pigeons on GCPD's roof."
She bolted upstairs before he could reply, slamming her bedroom door behind her.
Downton hadn't called.
And it was killing her.
She'd followed his every move—the museum heist, the encrypted messages left in alleyways, the way he'd slipped GCPD's net like smoke. He wasn't just a criminal. He was art. And she wanted to be his accomplice, his muse, his partner in chaos.
But why hadn't he reached out?
By 9:03 a.m., her patience snapped.
"Fine," she muttered, jabbing at her phone. "If you won't call me… I'll call you."
In a quiet café on the edge of Smallville, Kansas, Lois nearly dropped her latte when her phone buzzed.
"He—he actually called!" she whispered, turning wide eyes to her father, General Lane, seated across from her.
The general didn't flinch. "Answer it. He won't hurt you."
Heart pounding, Lois accepted the call.
"Hello? This is Lois… Downton? Are you really coming to Metropolis to see me? I'm actually in Smallville right now—I've got an interview for—"
BZZZT
A shrill, furious voice cut through.
"Who the hell are you?!" Haino shrieked. "Why do you have Downton's phone?! I gave him that number! I picked it myself—'555-DEATH'! Do you even know who I am?!"
Lois blinked. "I—uh—"
"My father's a U.S. Congressman! My mother's Deputy Secretary of Defense! You're in Smallville? Good. Stay there. I'm coming. And when I find you—"
Haino's voice dropped to a venomous whisper.
"—you're dead."
Happy new year folks 🎊🎊